


The Song of the Mountain

by sinestrated



Series: Ballads [1]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Gen, Mild Gore, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-20 17:55:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22547428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinestrated/pseuds/sinestrated
Summary: Several months after escaping Nevarro, Din receives an odd bounty that leads him to Paz Vizsla's foundlings. Their father is missing, so he resolves to find him.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV) & Paz Vizla
Series: Ballads [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1628653
Comments: 18
Kudos: 287





	The Song of the Mountain

**Author's Note:**

> This is intended to be the first in a five-part series with endgame Din/Paz. We'll see if I actually get that far. I'm just kind of playing around at this point.
> 
> Was meant to be entirely gen, but came out a bit heavy on the slash anyway. Hence the tag.

A soft beeping woke Din Djarin from restless dreams. He shifted in the pilot’s seat, then groaned when sore muscles protested the movement. How long had it been, five hours? Six?

Most people who didn’t spend time among the stars tended to think spaceflight was something romantic and exciting, full of heart-pounding battles and fiery explosions. And sure, there was the occasional dogfight or close brush with a supernova or the sudden need to escape an Imp-infested planet because the baby you carried with you turned out to be wanted by half the galaxy, but the truth, Din had learned, was that most of the time being in space was actually really fucking  _ boring.  _ Just a whole lot of sitting around on your ass between destinations, monitoring instruments and staring out at the stars. And even the stars got tiresome after a while.

The beeping was coming from the comms panel on the left, a light there flashing in the telltale three-dot pattern that indicated an incoming transmission. Din spared a quick glance over his shoulder: the child still slept, buried in blankets in the little nest he’d made of the copilot’s chair. Long green ears twitched as they dreamed, and Din allowed himself a small smile as he turned to play the message.

A familiar blue-tinged figure came to life on his dash, hands on hips. “Good to hear from you again, Mando,” Greef Karga said, voice tinny and distorted by time and lightyears. “That last bounty paid out just fine; I’ll have the payment transferred to you shortly. Got another hit close to your location. File’s attached; let me know if you decide to take it on.” A brief pause. “Cara says hi, and, uh. You know. Hug the little one for me.” 

This last was said in a bit of a hurry, as if Greef was afraid of being overheard. Beneath the helm, Din grinned. It didn’t matter if you were the gruff, authoritative head of one of the largest and most successful Guild operations this side of the galaxy; if a young, green-eared child smiled at you, they had you wrapped around their little clawed finger for life.

Greef’s miniature abruptly vanished, replaced by the rotating bust of a mean-looking Caroogian sneering through his tentacles. Din glanced quickly over the information. Jisghe Akaanmiune, bail jumper, convicted of assault and intimidation, last known position...

Wait.

He blinked and leaned forward, peering at the name. Jisghe was uniquely Caroogian from what he could tell, but the last name. Akaanmiune. There was something...

Then it hit him.

_ Akaan.  _ War.  _ Mi’une.  _ Epic.

The bounty’s family name was Mando’a for “epic poem of war.”

Coincidence?

He leaned back, letting out a breath. The bounty wasn’t Mandalorian; the face glaring up at him from the dashboard was proof enough of that. Mandalorian ancestry, perhaps? But he’d never heard of a Clan Akaanmiune, and besides, even if this Jisghe had been a foundling, he would have given up his clan name upon leaving the Way.

Epic poem of war. There was really only one thing that could be referring to.

Within their nest, the child shifted and burped, nestling deeper into the blankets. Din reached across to the data console to input a few quick commands. Jisghe’s ugly visage faded away, replaced by long blocks of text in the familiar jagged script of Mando’a.

The rest of the galaxy mostly saw Mandalorians as a warrior people, leaping from one battle to the next and finding little meaning beyond war and bloodshed. And while this was mostly true, what a lot of people didn’t know was that Mandalore also held a long and sophisticated history of great works of art. Case in point:  _ Jaina ni’Akaanu _ , or “War as Life,” an epic poem written by a great philosopher centuries ago, which every self-respecting Mandalorian could claim to have read at least once.

Din himself had studied the poem multiple times in school, and while he didn’t agree with all its tenets—there was quite a lot of talk of pillaging and enslavement—the strategy and psychology of  _ Jaina _ still stuck with him to this day. Ask any Mandalorian about the most famous piece of literature from their culture, and they’d inevitably cite  _ Jaina _ . 

_ Akaan mi’une _ . Maybe this meant something.

The coordinates of Jisghe’s last known position placed him somewhere in the Arrkad System, about half a day’s journey at lightspeed. But, rather oddly, the planetoid he was supposed to be on was hostile to most forms of intelligent life, and definitely to Caroogians. So either Jisghe had managed to get his slimy hands on a ship with a full portable life-support system capable of filtering out some of the worst neurotoxins in the galaxy...or the coordinates were a clue.

...What the hell. The kid was sleeping, and Jisghe wasn’t going anywhere. He had time.

Din glanced at the first of the four sets of numbers. 178. The corresponding line in  _ Jaina _ : “And you shall position yourself the same.”

Okay...

Second set: 836. “For then did he look upon the thirdmost moon.”

Third set: 3007. “‘Hear me!’ cried she, ‘for I hail from the western city!”

And finally: 1024. “To ask of your own possession.”

Din took a deep breath. Glanced at the coordinates. Then at  _ Jaina _ . Then back at the coordinates.

It could be nothing. Just coincidence. Then again...

His hands flew over the navigation console.  _ Position yourself the same: _ he brought up the Arrkad System.  _ Thirdmost moon: _ Its third inhabited moon, a thick forested place with just one major city, Thalkikk.  _ The western city: _ Thalkikk’s western district was mostly residential.

_ Ask of your own possession. _

He looked once more over at the child, who slept peacefully on. If there was any possibility that this was a message, if there was a chance of another Mandalorian out there on Thalkikk, sending out a plea into the vast darkness of space, then he was obligated to answer. This was the Way.

Sending off a brief reply to Greef, Din flicked away the  _ Jaina _ and turned the Razor Crest toward the Arrkad System.

#

Thalkikk, as it turned out, was exactly what you’d expect of the biggest city on a largely forgettable moon: bustling, noisy, full of all manner of beings, and a perfect place to hide. Din made his way through the crowded streets, ignoring as always the looks of mixed surprise and fear that followed him as he moved. He’d left the child on the ship, not trusting them not to get lost in a city as big as this, and he didn’t intend to stay long; if the message didn’t check out, they’d be gone before sunset.

Of course, that all changed when he walked into the first Guild-friendly cantina in Thalkikk’s western district and the bartender immediately waved at him. “Mando! You change your armor?”

Din paused. The other bounty hunters in the place all turned to look at him, but not with hostility, he noted: more a sort of casual acknowledgment, as if he’d been by often enough to catch their attention but not to raise hackles. In fact, the half-grin the bartender was sending him was downright friendly, so he straightened his shoulders.  _ Roll with it. _

“Yeah,” he said, approaching the bar. 

The man behind it cocked his head, smile wavering. “What’s wrong with your voice?”

“Came with the armor.”

“Huh. Well, whatever you say.” The bartender shrugged. “I got no new jobs for you right now, so why don’t you take a break and relax? You’re always so tense.”

He was already patting the table and turning away to serve another customer. Din narrowed his eyes.  _ Ask of your own possession. _ “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Eh?”

“My stuff.”

And any remaining doubt he had about the bounty being a message vanished when the bartender raised his eyebrows and smacked his forehead. “Oh, right! Damn, I almost forgot.” Reaching beneath the counter, he pressed a few buttons, something hissed, and he straightened back up with...well, shit.

A tracking fob. Deactivated, from the looks of it, but a fob nevertheless. And a keycoder.

The bartender shrugged. “Dunno what you want with a broken fob but whatever, you do you—oh.” He blinked as the fob beeped and began flashing its little red light in Din’s palm. “Well, would you look at that. Guess it just ain’t coded to me. An old bounty, maybe? The one who got away?”

Evidently the man was used to dealing with Mandalorians because he just chuckled at Din’s silence. “All right, Mando, none of my business, I get it. Check back next week and I might have something for you.” And then he was off, turning to chat with another customer further down the bar.

Din looked down at the fob in his hand, little red light beeping its rhythm cheerfully. The bartender may not have been the shiniest helolight in the box, but he’d been right about one thing: the fob had been coded to respond to something. Din suspected it was the beskar he was wearing, which only went to confirm his suspicion.

The placer of that bounty wanted a Mandalorian to come looking for them. So, for better or for worse, that was what they were about to get.

#

The little tracking device led him on a winding path through the western district, deep into the residential area. As buildings jammed closer together and living units stacked up tighter and tighter, Din ducked into a side alley, the fob’s beeping growing rapidly louder and faster. At last, it brought him to a thick sealed door in a lopsided building behind a restaurant that smelled of heavily spiced meats. There were no windows, and the door was tightly locked.

At least, until he swiped the keycoder.

The room beyond was cold and completely dark, so much so that Din had to activate his helm’s night vision as he stepped carefully inside. Where was the other Mandalorian? Or maybe it was a trap. Maybe the Imps had gotten a hold of  _ Jaina _ , knew its significance, and had with their typical coldhearted cunning decided to lay an intricate net to draw in any unsuspecting—

“D-Don’t move.”

He paused and turned slowly toward the voice.

Outlined in the eerie red glow of night vision, the dark-haired boy standing in the corner of the room was maybe nine, no older than ten. His eyes were blown wide with fear and his entire body trembled, dirty clothes hanging off his skinny frame, but there was no mistaking the determined set of his jaw, or what he held in his hands: a thick beskar vambrace, humming softly with a set of familiar, tiny glowing lights. Whispering Birds.

Din frowned. “Who are—”

“I s-said don’t move!” The child shook so hard it was a miracle he was still on his feet. Din stared at his sweaty fingers, dangerously close to the trigger. Whispering Birds were specifically designed to hunt out and exploit weak spots in an enemy’s armor; beskar or not, if the boy deployed them, he wasn’t getting out of this in one piece.

“Listen.” He raised a hand, palm up. “I received a message. A bounty, coded to bring me here. You have a Mandalorian weapon. You see what I wear. I’m not going to hurt you, little one.”

The boy swallowed. “Prove it,” he demanded. “You could be anyone under that. You—You could’ve murdered him and taken his armor, you have to prove it!”

His hand slipped a bit—Din’s heart leaped into his throat—but then recovered. He cast desperately about for an answer. Maybe he could mention  _ Jaina _ ? But the child looked too young to have begun those studies. Bring out his own Whispering Birds? That would be an open invitation for the kid to kill him first. What else—

And then he saw it.

The vambrace that housed the tiny missiles, beskar worn and scratched with age, yet still clearly painted a telltale, proud dark blue. A color he’d last seen on one other Mandalorian, glinting in the light of an overcast sky.

He took a deep breath. “You’re Paz Vizsla’s  _ ad _ .”

The boy stared up at him, eyes wide and wet in the half-darkness. The vambrace dropped to the floor. And he began to cry.

#

His name was Avi; he’d just turned ten. He and his little sister Lyrr had been alone for a week.

Din held the trembling little girl in his lap. She was barely three, and had started wailing as soon as Avi opened the closet door where he’d stashed her when Din arrived. Now she clung to him as close as she could, curling up against his beskar chestplate with heartbreaking familiarity, and Din swallowed.

Bounty hunting on Nevarro had been his way of contributing to the tribe, true, but it also meant he’d spent far too little time at the Covert itself. He’d often seen the children running through the sewers, laughing and playing games, but he’d not known their names, or who their guardians were. He hadn’t thought Paz even  _ had _ foundlings.

Yet clearly he had, and he’d cared for them well if Avi and Lyrr’s distress was anything to go by. The skinny ten-year-old sat on the rickety single bed, arms wrapped around his knees, swiping at the dried tear tracks on his cheeks. “After he got us off Nevarro,  _ Buir _ brought us here and started taking whatever jobs he could find, anything to keep us clothed and fed. Then he got a new job and went off-planet, and he was supposed to come back or at least comm two days ago but we didn’t hear anything. So I posted the bounty like he told me to.”

Din nodded, careful not to jostle Lyrr. “And I’m the first to arrive?”

“The only.” Avi ducked his head. “What...What do we do now, Djarin’ _ baa _ ?”

He sounded so heartbreakingly lost that it was all Din could manage not to sweep him up in his arms and take them both back to the Razor Crest immediately. Because this was the Way: any foundlings who had lost their guardian were placed under the care of the next Mandalorian who came upon them. Paz had been off comms for two days, had given specific instructions to his son to consider him cold. As the first Mandalorian to pick up on the message, it was Din’s right—no, his  _ expectation _ to honor Paz’s legacy and take the children into his own newly-formed clan.

In his arms, Lyrr stirred. “I want  _ Buir _ ,” she murmured, around the thumb in her mouth. “I want  _ Buir _ , where’s  _ Buir _ , I want him I want—”

Avi sprang off the bed to take his now-sobbing sister. As the curly-haired toddler clung to him and sniffled, he looked up at Din with big eyes, lower lip trembling. “He’s not coming back, is he?” he whispered, as Lyrr tried her level best to burrow into his chest. “That’s why you’re here. Because our father is dead.”

And, in that moment and for decades after, Din Djarin would never be able to explain why he did what he did. Maybe he just couldn’t stand disappointing these two young children, who had already lost so much. Or maybe he remembered Paz as he’d last seen him, soaring majestic in the sky alongside his ship. Or maybe, just maybe, this was just how the universe worked sometimes: grinding and turning and carving out coincidences, all in order to set two simple, unsuspecting souls on one single, shining path.

Looking at Paz’s two foundlings, lost and alone and trembling with fear, Din should have said yes. Yes, their father was dead, and no, he wasn’t coming back, so pack everything and come with me, I will look after you as my own, you’re Clan Djarin now. He should have taken them in without question, should have honored the Creed of his ancestors that made the Way of the Mandalore, should have cared for them and raised them and allowed Paz Vizsla to fade into distant memory like a wisp of errant smoke.

Instead, he looked Avi Vizsla dead in the eye and spoke with the conviction of true, unshakeable belief.

“I wouldn’t count on it.”

#

A series of carefully-worded questions put to the Thalkikk bartender gave him the basics of the job: it was located the next system over on a heavily jungled planetoid, popular with nature lovers and ecotourists. A ridiculously wealthy shipping magnate wanted only the best heavily-armed escort for himself, his two socialite daughters, and their collection of rich friends, servants, cooks, and guides while they took a vacation in the jungle. He must have wet his pants with delight when Paz showed up.

Now Din picked his way through the jungle approximately two miles in from where he’d parked the Razor Crest, right where the client had pinged their last location. Despite the heat and humidity, he had to admit that this place really was perfect for an isolated, get-away-from-it-all vacation: light from the twin suns filtered down through the thick canopy above, glittering beautifully, and the greenery here looked pristine and untouched, a perfectly-preserved haven for all sorts of creatures. Had Paz also marveled at the beauty and life around them? Or had he been focused on the job, on watching for movement in the treeline, trying not to worry about Avi and Lyrr all alone back home?

The children had begged to come with him. Lyrr had thrown a truly impressive tantrum, and Avi insisted he could help, Paz had already begun teaching him to fly so surely he could at least stay back and watch the ship while Din went and brought their father back,  _ please, Djarin’ _ baa...

But Din had stood firm. The children couldn’t see it if the jungle gave up only Paz’s dead body. Yet somehow, as he stepped around yet another thickened tree root, swatting aside vines and thick leaves and clouds of hovering black insects, he also couldn’t imagine Paz’s life just ending like this, on some backwater planet in a forgettable star system, alone and unknown. 

Most people would assume Paz dead now, vanished into the jungle without a trace. But they hadn’t seen what Din had. They hadn’t seen one lone man face down an entire army simply because it was right.

The jungle rolled out all around him, grey mist forming thick clouds that drifted among the trees like lost spirits. There had been clouds that day too, so many years ago, but back then they’d been clouds of smoke, of ash and soot as the Storm Troopers came for them. As the Empire carried out its ruthless extermination campaign against the Mandalorians, that bloody and terrible period known as the Purge.

Din, barely fifteen, had still been just a foundling then. He remembered the explosions, the searing whine of blaster fire, the way the ground shook beneath them as the children cowered together in a cramped storage bunker while the world crumbled around them. It was like the attack on his homeworld all over again, panic and terror coursing fresh through his veins and turning everything cold and distant. Was this how he would die, defenseless and unprotected in the dark? Was this how the Empire finally crushed him beneath its ruthless iron boot?

Seeing the two Mandalorian adults descend from above, jetpacks hissing, had brought so much relief he’d nearly collapsed with it. Their armor was blue, pauldrons decorated with a jagged  _ jai’galaar  _ they all recognized. Clan Vizsla.

The elder of the two, armor worn and scored with old blaster marks to prove it, wasted no time. Placing a hand on her companion’s arm, she’d spoken words soft yet firm, a simple order, an expectation that it would be followed to the death. “Defend them, Paz. They are our future.”

The younger Mandalorian had simply nodded. “Yes,  _ Buir. _ ”

The elder departed, launching back into the air on her Rising Phoenix, and her son turned to the children. Even back then, Din remembered marveling at this man who stood tall and impassable as a mountain, this great warrior who was here to keep them safe. It had even seemed as if the steady gaze behind that visor landed only on him, Paz’s next words stated so casually, so matter-of-fact, as to instantly establish themselves as truth. “Don’t worry. They won’t get through me.”

And he’d been right. At least three dozen Troopers and half as many droids, and Paz fought them all off with blaster and vibroblades and flamethrowers and Whispering Birds and his bare hands several terrifying times, and Din and the others remained safe in the bunker. Four hours later, blaster wounds smoking through his armor and blood trickling out from beneath his helm, he collapsed the instant another group of adults arrived. But even as the Mandalorians gathered the children up and hurried them into waiting ships, Din looked back to see Paz being dragged aboard another transport, limp and unmoving, and knew there was at least one unchangeable constant in this universe.

Paz Vizsla could hold the entire world at bay when he had something worth protecting.

A high screech sounded out as a winged creature took flight from the canopy. Din jumped, hand flying to his blaster. Shit, he’d drifted off, and in unfamiliar, hostile territory no less. He had to stay focused. It was the only way he’d find Paz.

Yet with every step he took deeper into the jungle, the likelihood of that seemed slimmer and slimmer. He’d been walking for at least two hours now, progress slowed by thick undergrowth and the cloying, endless heat. There were no tracks to speak of, not with the ever-shifting landscape of mud and dripping water, and the humidity rendered his helm’s sensors near useless, all the instruments going haywire the instant he turned them on. The child was still back on the Crest, entertaining themself by floating an empty cup the last time he’d looked, but it would be getting dark soon, with all the dangers that entailed. If he kept going in aimless circles like this, if he didn’t find Paz soon...

And then he tripped over the corpse.

It was sudden and graceless: a catch on his foot, his stomach jumping into his throat, and then he was flat on the ground. Din groaned, swiping at the mud smeared across his visor as he turned—and nearly threw up right into his helm.

The man slumped against the tree had been dead for days, skin putrid and body bloated with rot. Black flies swarmed in thick clouds all over him, maggots crawling out of his eyes, nostrils, and slack-jawed mouth. Around the oozing black sludge that was all that remained of his disemboweled stomach, Din could just barely make out the dirty white of a uniform, stamped with the logo of the client’s shipping company. It was one of the servants.

And he wasn’t alone. Now Din could see it all around: the gruesome signs of a terrible bloody battle. Equipment and supplies were scattered throughout the vegetation, some of it still feebly sparking, and amongst them more bodies: cooks, guides, porters, all of them torn apart as if by some fearsome bloodthirsty beast.

His first clue that Paz had been there was the blaster marks, peppering the tree trunks in wild, jagged patterns as if he’d been shooting at multiple targets at once. About twenty meters further in he discovered the first of the dead animals: a giant, hulking beast at least six feet at the shoulders with six legs, curved claws, and a giant stinger perched on the end of a long curled tail, still dripping with a sludgy, dark green liquid.

Din’s heart sank, watching as a drop of venom hit the ground, sizzling upon contact. Something that deadly in a stinger that sharp—even beskar wouldn’t stop it. And if the client had hired only Paz to defend them, if it was just a single Mandalorian against a whole pack of these monsters...

He swallowed and quickened his steps.

The violence only got worse the deeper he got. Two more dead predators led him to a bloody clearing strewn with guts and body parts, all that remained of the client and his rich companions, if the designer ladies’ shoe on a recently-dismembered foot was any indication. Paz’s heavy gun was here too, charred and overheated, yet even as Din pursued the carnage further into the jungle, he didn’t find Paz himself.

Panic and despair tried their level best to crawl up his throat. Din swallowed them back with effort. Could Paz really be dead? Maybe, in the midst of the fighting, he’d fallen off a cliff or tumbled into a river. Maybe the predators had decided to drag his body off to their lair. Maybe...

Maybe those were the telltale scorch marks of a flamethrower burnt into that tree over there.

Throat tight, Din lifted his blaster and hurried forward. Yes, he could see it now: a growing diagonal pattern of burns, sized exactly to a vambrace much like his own. And there: another one of the creatures, slumped on its side with a vibroblade buried in its ribcage, still thrumming weakly.

Din snatched up the weapon and broke into a run.

He didn’t know how long he ran; could have been minutes, could have been years. Leaves slapped at him as he tore his way through the jungle, vines and roots snagging at his arms and legs but he ignored them all because there was another dead creature, burned half to a crisp while the trees around it continued to smolder, and there, there was another one with a second vibroblade sticking out of its skull which meant Paz was now defenseless, alone and injured and if Din didn’t get there in time—

The cave came rushing out of nowhere, a ragged dark maw as if some god had taken a knife and ripped a hole in the landscape with gleeful abandon. Din skidded to a stop, panting as he stared into the sudden blackness. A slow-flowing stream curved out from the jungle and vanished into the cavern. All he could hear were the echoes of its cheerful burbling, coupled with the pounding of his own heart.

The remains of another creature lay just outside the cave’s mouth, dismembered into chunks. Neat, hexagonal chunks that Din realized he vaguely recognized. Taking a deep breath, he reached down, grasped a gnarled tree branch, and hurled it at the darkness.

A spark, a sizzle: then a burning flash of light. Din shook the searing afterimage from his head as he watched the branch fall to the ground, sliced into hexagons like its unfortunate predecessor. A honeycomb layer of yellow light shimmered across the mouth of the cave, a sight he’d not seen for many years.

An Inferno Web. A Mandalorian weapon through and through, more difficult to craft than even Whispering Birds, and to be used only as a last line of defense. Within Din’s chest, hope warred with despair. Paz had deployed the Web, which meant he’d at least been alive and aware when he’d stumbled into this cave however many days ago. But the fact that the Web was still up meant he hadn’t come out again. Was he too late?

_ They won’t get through me. _

He couldn’t turn back now. Dead or alive, he owed it to Paz to find him and bring him back to his family. This was the Way.

Slowly, he reached down to take Paz’s vibroblade in hand. It still had some charge left and he cranked it carefully, the weapon’s hum rising in pitch and intensity until it sang like a hopeful bird. The sound echoed all around him, the beskar in his helm resonating with the frequency, and Din stepped forward and touched the blade to the Web.

It was like throwing a stone through a glass door. The Web shuddered and collapsed, honeycomb light vanishing into nothing. The cave yawned open before him, darkness swimming with secrets. Not daring to breathe, Din stepped slowly inside.

The dim light from outside barely penetrated here, the only illumination the circle of harsh light cast by his helm. Din picked his way forward, looking this way and that. Rock all around, slimy with mold and bacterial growth. Roots draping down from the plants above. The ground beneath was wet and smoothed over by the stream, mud sucking at his boots, throwing up the putrid stench of sulphur and other rotting things. Where was he? Where was—

There.

Blue.

“Paz!” Din rushed forward, uncaring of the cold mud soaking through his clothes as he fell to his knees next to the armored figure sprawled at the back of the cave. “Paz? Paz, it’s Din. Paz?”

No response. The other Mandalorian lay there beneath his hands, limp as a doll, and Din pressed desperate fingers beneath Paz’s muddy helm, feeling, searching, praying...

There. By all the holy gods: a heartbeat, slow, labored, yet there nevertheless. Issik be praised: the universe had tried its level best to kill Paz Vizsla, and it had failed.

As if in response to his thoughts, Paz’s body suddenly jerked, weak fingers scrabbling for his. Quickly Din yanked his hand back. “Paz! It’s okay, I wasn’t trying to remove it, I was just looking for a pulse—Paz, it’s me, it’s Din,  _ stop moving! _ ”

He saw it the instant Paz heard him past the terror and fear; the older Mandalorian stiffened, visor tilted toward him, before slumping back with a groan. “D-Djarin,” Paz said, voice weak and far too slurred for Din’s liking. “Shoulda figured...you’d haunt me...in th’afterlife.”

“Like you’d be so lucky.” He tried to scoff and failed miserably. “Where are you hurt?”

“Ah, f-fuck...m’leg.”

Din glanced down and bit off a curse. Like the other Mandalorians from the Covert, not all of Paz’s armor was made of beskar, and one of the creatures from before had evidently taken advantage: the painted steel greave above Paz’s left ankle was a mangled mess, half-melted and oozing blackish blood. Din didn’t have to look closely to know; one sniff brought him a sickeningly sweet smell: venom, mixed with the clear stench of infection.

Paz must have sensed his alarm because the older Mandalorian huffed a laugh, utterly humorless and lanced through with pain. “Can’t jus’...walk this one off...I’m afraid.”

Din shook his head. “You’ll have to try,” he said. “Come on, I’ll help you, can you get up?”

Instead of trying, Paz slumped back, exhaustion dripping from every word. “M’kids...find ‘em?”

“Yeah.” Din tried a smile, even though he knew Paz couldn’t see it. “ _ Jaina _ ? Really? Never took you for a reader, Vizsla.”

“It’s...a classic.” Paz coughed, thick and far too wet. One gloved hand reached up to wrap around Din’s own, weak but firm. “They’re...yours now, Din. G-Go.”

“What?” Anger burst forth, helpless and hot. “Paz!”

“Th-This is the—”

“ _ No. _ ” If it wouldn’t have aggravated his injuries, Din would have reached out to shake him. “Paz Vizsla, you are still alive. Issik only knows how, but you are, so I’m going to take you back to your family, kicking and screaming if I have to. Got it?”

“But I c-can’t—”

“Avi is a fucking  _ mess _ .” He spat the words through gritted teeth, and had the satisfaction of seeing Paz lurch back as if struck. “And don’t even get me started on Lyrr. They want their  _ buir _ , Paz, and that’s not me.”

“Din—”

“No.” Din brought his other hand up to cover Paz’s, squeezing hard as he breathed through sudden tears. “Once, long ago, you refused to leave me. Remember?”

Silence fell. Din clung to Paz’s hand, staring steadily into the T-shaped visor surrounded by mud-covered blue. He may have imagined it at fifteen, but now he knew Paz’s gaze was on him, this man who had fought off an entire Imperial battalion for a ragged band of children, who had raised two young orphans with all the love in his heart, who now trusted them to an almost-stranger without thought or hesitation, all because he believed it was right. There weren’t many people who could bend the universe to their will simply because they wanted to protect something precious. Paz Vizsla was one of those people.

Then, at last, Paz sighed. It was so put-upon, so utterly annoyed that Din almost laughed as the older Mandalorian jammed his free hand into the mud to haul himself painfully up to sitting. “S-Stupid brat,” he growled.

“Stubborn git.” Din couldn’t put any bite into the words, though, as he braced himself against Paz’s shoulder. “Come on.”

Together they pulled themselves to standing. Paz bit down on a garbled scream as his leg straightened but Din magnanimously ignored it, supporting the other Mandalorian against him as they limped slowly out of the cave. It was a slow, torturous journey, and by the time they finally emerged into the sunlight Paz was almost entirely dead weight, voice once again dangerously slurred as he murmured, “How far...s’the ship?”

“About three miles.”

“ _ Three _ ...?” Another humorless chuckle. “Glad I...limbered up...”

“Don’t worry.” Din turned to face him, looping his arms around Paz’s broad waist and hooking their legs together as Paz hissed in pain. “I got some upgrades since you saw me last.”

The Rising Phoenix on his back roared to life, thrumming and safe. As they rose slowly from the ground, Paz groaned and dropped his head to Din’s shoulder. “Show-off,” he grumbled, though Din heard the smile in it.

“Takes one to know one,” he answered, and held the other Mandalorian closer as they broke the canopy and soared up into the bright cloudless sky.

#

Night had fallen by the time they reached Thalkikk, which was a blessing as far as Din was concerned. Folks got nervous enough around one Mandalorian; two would likely cause heart attacks.

He landed the Razor Crest in the closest hangar he could find, setting down as gently as possible. Whether from pain, poison, or a combination of both, Paz had been near-insensible by the time they’d made it back to the ship. He’d recovered enough to stare dumbstruck as the child healed the wound in his leg, then promptly passed out for the entirety of the trip. It was just as well. Once he’d set the ship on an autocourse for Arrkad, Din had spent the remaining twelve hours burning through almost his entire supply of bacta and toxin eaters in order to patch up the multitude of Paz’s remaining wounds, which, of course, the older Mandalorian had conveniently neglected to tell him about.

Stubbornness, it seemed, was a uniquely Mandalorian trait.

As the ship powered down he made his way to the lower deck, then abruptly stuttered to a stop. “You’re awake.”

Paz grunted affirmation from where he stood, leaning back against the closed doors of the weapons compartment as he slid on his gloves. “Have been for about an hour. You fly like shit.”

“You’re awake,” Din repeated, dumbfounded, “and my child is on your shoulder.”

“Ah.” Paz turned to regard the tiny green form currently clinging to his neck. “So they are.”

“They could fall—”

“They’re old enough.” 

Paz spoke the way he usually did, as if it were simply fact. And sure enough, Din stared as the child clambered with surprising grace down Paz’s pauldron and then his arm, finally dropping to the ground with a soft chirp of exertion. They tottered over to Din, reaching stubby arms up, and he sighed and bent down, tucking them into the crook of his arm. “Sometimes I really don’t have the first idea about this.”

“You’ll learn,” Paz answered, again casual, matter-of-fact. “I, on the other hand, seem to be the one who needs some help. Have you seen my left vambrace?”

Din cleared his throat. “You, uh, left it. With Avi.”

“Oh.” Paz’s voice went soft. “So I did.”

Awkward silence. Din shifted the child in his arms, then strode forward toward the ramp. “We should take advantage of the darkness to move,” he said. “I assume you’re well enough to—”

“Din.”

He forgot sometimes how quietly a Mandalorian could move as Paz was suddenly  _ right there _ . A gloved hand touched his pauldron, careful to avoid the signet.

“Thank you,” Paz said, “for coming back for me.”

The expression he used was heavy and formal;  _ Khe vor’entye laash darasuum _ : I am forever in your debt. Din’s heart tightened in his chest and he shook his head. “No,” he said, lifting his own hand to lay a palm over Paz’s cuirass just below his right shoulder, where he knew a scar from a two-decades-old blaster wound still lay. “All debts are settled. We begin anew.”

The ramp hissed as it lowered. Paz cocked his head but Din held firm, lifting his chin to keep their gazes even. He needed Paz to know, to understand that despite their flaws and butting of heads, there was no universe where Din Djarin didn’t look at Paz Vizsla and remember a solid, shining figure who had held the whole world at bay, just to keep him safe.

He would always come for Paz. This was just the way of things.

Paz took a breath; Din saw it, the way his shoulders rose just a bit, but whatever the other Mandalorian was about to say was abruptly cut off by twin cries of “ _ Buir! _ ”

Just like that, the moment was over. Paz turned and lurched down the ramp, dropping to one knee just in time to receive his children, Avi and Lyrr clinging to him as they sobbed. Din watched, smiling through the hot prickle of tears as Paz gathered his foundlings close, uncaring of his still-filthy armor. “Shh,” he whispered, in a voice that probably shook more than he liked. “It’s okay, sweet, I’m here, shh...”

The child cooed, blinking up at him from within the thick swaddle. Din stroked his finger down the length of one long green ear, huffing a laugh when the child wriggled their entire body with pleasure. It was a profound thing, having a family. It was something worth doing anything to protect.

A tiny, distressed noise from below, and Din looked down to see Lyrr hovering by his knee, eyes big and wet as she strained up with her little arms. Heavy bootsteps approached as Paz made his way back up the ramp, Avi clinging to his hip like a particularly stubborn  _ vos _ -limpet. The older Mandalorian dipped his helm and offered a hand, so Din carefully transferred the child to him before bending down to pick Lyrr up, bouncing her a little as she curled into his neck with a soft giggle.

“It seems we’ve the makings of a fledgling Covert,” Paz remarked, voice warm as he stroked Avi’s hair.

Din nodded. “It’ll be difficult with just two clans.” They’d need a new place to live, first of all, somewhere hidden away yet spacious enough to house both their families. And money—they’d have to figure out how to support three children. Could he do that on bounty hunting alone? What if one of them got sick, or—

“Don’t look now,” Paz said, slowly tilting his head up toward the sky, “but I think my son may have blasted that bounty a  _ little _ further than I’d instructed.”

Din blinked, followed his gaze—and began to laugh.

The night was clear, a splash of black scattered with stars. But some of the stars were moving, growing: forming into the telltale silhouettes of descending ships. A sharp beeping started up in his pocket, and Din reached down to remove the tracking fob, watching as the tiny red light began pinging so fast the illumination became near-constant.  _ Beskar, _ the little device seemed to say with every sharp flash.  _ Mandalorians. _

_ Tribe. _

Finally, they were no longer alone.

“Well then.” Paz clapped him companionably on the shoulder, and though Din couldn’t see his bright grin, he knew with complete certainty that it was there. “Shall we welcome them home?”

Din nodded, smiled, and looked back up at the approaching ships.

_ Home. _ He liked the sound of that.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Regarding translations:** All my works, including this one, can be translated without first asking my express permission. I ask only that you credit me as the original author and provide a link back to the original work. For anything other than translations, please ask first. Thanks.


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